


35 minutes to midnight

by lindt_barton



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Spock, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Mind Meld, Sleepy Kirk, Unresolved Romantic Tension, late night chess, traditional christmas bailey's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 08:16:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5532266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindt_barton/pseuds/lindt_barton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is stardate 22187.9, more commonly known as just before midnight on Christmas Eve, and Jim is sitting in a corridor at 4 o'clock on the disk... Spock and Jim being fluffy on Christmas night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	35 minutes to midnight

It is stardate 22187.9, more commonly known as just before midnight on Christmas Eve, and Jim is sitting in a corridor at 4 o'clock on the disk. Blessedly alone, because he had it closed for maintenance. (The benefits of being a captain). He sips his mug of replicator Bailey’s. He’s spent just enough Christmases left on the ship to start traditions like these. This one because his Mom had always had a bottle at Christmas. He’d always gotten a taste. The replicator stuff messes up the cream, gives it a plastic undertone. The mug is from home, he should start smuggling booze from there too. Although, it _is_ more accurate than his snow, which shoots past left to right at just below warp speed.

Jim drifts, half a mug down, lets the motion of the star snow fill his fuzzy head. Tries to think of an excuse to have the ship fly so that the stars fall instead of fly. Dreams about wood fires. Lets his eyes fall out of focus until his view looks like fairy lights.

The door opens. Jim jolts two feet to the left. Brandishes his mug like a phaser. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck, Spock?” No amount of space travel makes a door opening in the middle of the night when you think you’re alone not shit terrifying. Sloshed Bailey’s drips off his fingers onto the carpet. Spock’s eyes are narrowed, he holds his phaser at hip height. (Starfleet recommends this stance for situations where threat is possible, but not immediately apparent).

Spock tilts his head to the left (he often does), “This corridor had no need to be shut for maintenance. I found the behaviour suspicious on your part.”

“I had no idea I inspired such trust in you, Mr. Spock." 

"I have found it wise to monitor you closely, Captain.” Jim laughs, _touché._

“This more fun than sleeping, huh? No redshirts on duty on Christmas Eve?” He starts licking the Bailey’s off his fingers.

“It was in your name,” Spock watches his mouth on his hands, “A personal investigation seemed more appropriate." 

“You like to keep an eye on me,” he winks at Spock, who doesn’t react at all.

Jim rolls his eyes, pats the carpet beside him, "Sit down, Spock.”

Spock sits. At a right angle, as he always does, his hands folded in his lap. Who taught you to sit? And right on the spot Jim patted too, closer than colleagues. Jim shifts as if to give him space, but doesn’t actually move.

“Have a drink.”

“You are aware I do not drink.”

Quietly, with a smile, “I’m aware, Spock.”

Spock follows his eye-line to the stars.

This is how they sit. With the stars. Too close in the quiet. Jim leading with words, and Spock as always, following. Jim slumping towards Spock as the level in hug mug falls with each sip. Spock never moves away.

When Jim’s hair is brushing against Spock’s shoulder, and there’s no drink left to sip, he asks Spock the time. Almost stardate 22188.1. Captain.

“It’s a shame it’s not real snow,” he mutters. Spock raises an eyebrow at the stars, then looks back to Jim with wide eyes, like he is the white Christmas.

Jim stands. He holds his hand out to help Spock up. Normal for a human, he knows a Vulcan won’t take it. Spock’s eyes linger on the offer, his fingers curl against the carpet, but he stands un-aided.

They walk together, Jim warmed by booze enough to knock shoulders, and leading Spock to his quarters without a word needing to pass between them. (Spock’s are in the opposite direction, him having given up the customary suite next to the captain’s, stating it a tactical error to house the two most senior officers so near to each other). Jim greets whoever they pass with a cheery, “Merry Christmas!” and Spock stays silent. They don’t talk, but Jim shoots Spock a smile every hundred yards or so. Spock not-quite-smiles back (it’s a Vulcan thing).

Jim has learnt just the right timing to command the computer so that he can glide into his quarters without a delay. Spock had watched him perfect this over approximately three weeks. Spock slows, and from the doorway, he hears Jim collapse into his favourite chair. Jim yells, “Come _in._ ”

Jim’s fireplace (a peculiar antiquity that he had insisted upon) is lit, filling the room with a warm golden glow, and heat that is welcome to a Vulcan. The furniture has been moved into a more cramped arrangement to allow for an artificial Christmas tree adorned with gold ornaments. Spock having never seen one before, walks straight to it and examines the lights, the baubles, and runs the tips of his fingers along the tinsel. Jim watches, a sloppy smile all over his face. Spock says, “A Christmas tree has no trunk, and needles which extend onto the branches. A most fascinating interpretation of a _Picea abies_ ,” and does not add that as Jim has the means to acquire a more life-like tree, he knows this version must hold some sentimental significance to him.

Jim is struck by how much he enjoys that Spock can make him see anything anew, but he doesn’t say this. He says, “Not enough to fool a Vulcan, eh?”

“If this is enough to fool a human, I have severely over-estimated the intellectual abilities of your species.” Spock is Vulcan-smirking over his shoulder at Jim.

Jim leans half out of his chair and scrabbles with the tips of his fingers for their chess set. His internal Spock tells him this is most inefficient, but brain Spock can go to hell because Jim’s chair is way too comfy to leave. Real Spock is busy warming splayed hands in front Jim’s fire. His fingers are long and fine, and just like the rest of him, incredibly pale. They look like fingers that get cold too easily.

Jim starts setting out the pieces. He can tell by the angle of Spock’s head that he’s listening. When Jim sets out his last piece, the black rook, Spock sits to his left and sets his out in half the time Jim had taken.

And this is how they play chess. Jim drifting between his moves, his eyes getting caught in the dance of the flames in his fireplace, his legs splayed out between the legs of the table between them, and maybe the tip of one of them is resting against Spock’s instep. This time they don’t talk because chess is the conversation. Jim doesn’t mind losing ninety percent of the time to a Vulcan who can master any set of rules. His expertise tends to lies slightly outside of them anyway. 

Some time and many fallen black pieces later, Jim has fallen asleep with Spock’s white bishop curled in his fingers. His eyes had been slipping closed and peeling open for the entirety of Spock’s last move. He cannot deny that he had delayed his thought process to allow the captain to fall asleep. It was a rational tactical decision only.

Spock considers allowing the captain to sleep indefinitely. He begins carefully tidying away the pieces. He knows humans, especially Jim, do not enjoy being woken up. He knows that falling asleep in front of other people indicates comfort. He knows that Jim is smiling. But he also knows that Jim alternates between spending too long on his feet and sitting with terrible posture in various chairs, and that at the end of longer days he can be seen kneading his lower back. When Spock stands to take the final piece from between his fingers, Jim’s eyes flicker open, he releases a deep sigh, and he smiles slow like honey up at Spock.

Spock often thinks and never says, that humans reach out as if they were once able to share thoughts as Vulcans do. They reach out as if their body remembers something which their mind has forgotten how to complete. Jim reaches for Spock’s temple. Spock leans down to let him, before he can manage to halt himself, as he usually does. A tide of warmth washes into him from Jim’s fingers. His mind gasps and sends sparks racing through the waves. All Jim sees are dark wide eyes that are staring right into the very tips of him. This is not entirely new, although the feeling of soft skin under his fingertips is, and steady bones beneath that.

_You should retire to bed, Captain._ Jim nods and hums, a noise that rises out of his chest.

Spock holds his hand out to help Jim up. Normal for a human, he knows Jim will take his hand.


End file.
